


Book of Revelation

by Daily_noise



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fire Emblem - Freeform, Fire Emblem Three Houses - Freeform, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Religion, but gets hotter I swear, pre and post skip, seteth is a holy man but I swear, soft, what else do I tag smh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28412199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daily_noise/pseuds/Daily_noise
Summary: ‘You know, you can call her ‘daughter’ around me.’The first time Seteth noticed his colleague, and all the times after that.(a.k.a I’m in love with Manuela but Seteth is a cutie and deserves some ngl)
Relationships: Manuela Casagranda/Seteth
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	1. Verse 1: Physician

**Author's Note:**

> Evening! Mandatory starting notes - this starts out sfw but will probably get more nsfw as their relationship matures. not my fault they have perfect supports in game :)

The first time he noticed her was, inevitably, upon their first meeting. 

When Manuela Casagranda applied for the new Professor position at Garreg Mach, Seteth raised an eyebrow. As did the goddess, he assumed, because what was the diva of the Mittelfrank Opera Company doing in Fódlan’s primary holy sanctum? While it’s true he had been sleeping for centuries, Seteth was not entirely detached from the culture surrounding him. This era was full of it. He had heard of her, certainly, and he considered himself not a prejudiced man, but he couldn’t help but shake his head. Rhea, against his will, had happily invited her to interview. Not that the candidate pool was particularly large. And now here she was, standing in a far too low cut dress, on the steps of the Reception Hall, marvelling at the stone wonders that surrounded her. Seteth stood imposingly at the precipice, arms folded in contempt. Her eyes finally fixed upon him, a smile lighting up her features.

‘My, isn’t this a wonder!’ She strutted towards him, heels gliding over the literal red carpet covering stone. She reached out to shake the priest’s hand, a surprising first act of boldness. Seteth would amuse the Archbishop’s whims for now. The woman continued, eagerly gripping his fingers for what seemed like an eternity. ‘Manuela Casagranda, former Diva of the Mittelfrank- oh, whatever. You already know that, I’m sure. And your handsome self must be Seteth, yes?’ Her eyes twinkled, and Seteth felt a foul taste in his mouth. 10 seconds into their first meeting and she was already shamelessly flirting with a holy man. Still, something she said caught his attention.

‘Former?’ He questioned, pulling his hand free of hers. It earned him a flash of – what was that, sadness? Across her features before it dissolved.

‘Ah- yes. Well, I up and resigned when I heard this position was available, dear. Too long in the spotlight burns!’ Making a mental note to reprimand Rhea with a smug ‘I told thee so’ later, Seteth raised an eyebrow.

‘How confident. You are aware you are not the only candidate?’ A blatant lie. Not so much as a ghost of a reply from anyone else, and Seteth shamed himself for the act. Remain civil, he thought, and she may leave. But it only seemed to excite her further, her red lips tugging into a smile.

‘Well, I’ll just have to be extra convincing then, hmm?’ Her eyes shone, and she began to set off without him. ‘Lady Rhea is in her audience chamber, yes?’ Manuela called over her shoulder, walking in completely the wrong direction. The emerald-haired saint rolled his eyes, before leading her the way. Surely when Rhea set sight upon Ms. Casagranda she would see her error? He was pulled out of his thoughts by the trivial matter of proper etiquette. Manuela made idle chatter as they walked, Seteth replying politely with the literal patience of a saint.

‘Manuela. If I may ask, what made you desire this position?’ He asked, his eyes flickering to look at her for only a moment. The woman smiled in response, her hair reflecting the sunlight streaming through the stained glass.

‘Well, I figured I might as well put my doctorate to good use. Can’t cast physic from as far as Enbarr, can I?’ She laughed at herself, blessing her acting prowess as she skilfully concealed her crippling anxiety. She’d bet everything on this job, scarred by the shadows that followed the spotlight, and they had threatened to envelop her entirely. Besides, there was another that deserved the role more. She looked up at him, fully focussed on his face for the first time. Something about this man made her feel on edge, like those gorgeous green eyes could see through her skin, and into her soul. She reprimanded herself for her thoughts, centering herself on delivering a good answer.

Seteth, on the other hand. Her response nearly made him faint. This woman had a doctorate? How ironic the goddess had punished his previous misjudgement, then. _How unseemly for a Saint, Cichol,_ he furrowed his brow. Manuela noticed, but took no care.

‘I know, I know. I’m the last person you’d think to be a licensed Physician, right? Not to worry. I’m not offended.’ Before Seteth could apologise, they stood outside the door to the audience chamber, and Manuela felt her stomach knit itself in knots. She had never ventured this deep into Garreg Mach before, and it loomed like a beast before her eyes, each corridor’s twists broken only by the endless stained glass. Seteth, for the first time since he met her, looked her in the eyes. Where he expected to see fear, he saw…nothing. Like a sheet had been pulled over the honey-coloured twinkles, she betrayed none of her emotion on her face. The skill of a Diva, he thought to himself.

‘Well. I do suppose you must meet-‘

‘Seteth! Brother!’ A sudden shout drew his attention. Bright green hair bounced in its drills as the rhythmic sound of Flayn’s feet broke into a run towards him. She skidded to a halt, panting slightly. Immediately, Seteth drew his attention to his daughter, disregarding any sentence he was in the middle of.

‘Flayn? What is it? I asked that you only fetch me for urgent-‘ he was cut off again, and Manuela was mildly amused that the young girl broke his speech with almost no concern. His sister? How sweet, she giggled. So he had a soft side, too!

‘It is urgent, Brother! A student was ambushed returning from Fherdiad, and-and nothing I cast is of use! I cannot even discern what hurt him!’ Flayn was close to tears, her hands balled up into fists. Manuela blinked, and before Seteth could reply, she placed her hand on Flayn’s shoulder, bending down to meet her eye level. Goddess above, why was she wearing a dress with no support on the chest? She flipped her attention back to Flayn. The girl had absolutely no idea who the woman was, having barely registered her presence, in a very un-Flayn way. In all fairness, Manuela could tell she was panicking. 

‘Perhaps I can be of use? I’m a physician, honey – just tell me who needs help, and what you’ve tried to cast, and I’ll do my best.’ Her smile was warm, and radiated genuine kindness. Perhaps it was Flayn’s innocence, or the gentle tone which flooded Manuela’s voice, but Flayn grabbed the older woman’s hand and tugged her along, leaving Seteth quite astounded, his jaw slightly agape. Either way, a student was hurt, and he could not stand by idly, let alone allow an unsupervised stranger wander around. Manuela had to jog to keep up with the worrisome girl, her heels clicking in protest on the stone. 

‘I cast heal, but I- I do not think I did it right, and I tried Physic, too, but he would not stop bleeding!’ Flayn sounded desperate, and Manuela couldn’t help but feel panicked, too. The spotlight was now shining directly into her eyes – it was sink or swim. At least, she thought, it was a coincidentally perfect opportunity to relieve Seteth’s doubts about her.

‘Alright. Let me see what I can do, honey.’ Manuela assured her through short breaths as she was dragged down winding stairs to a small lake that was vaguely familiar. They ran up another set of stairs, and into a side building that was much more modern than the cathedral, lined with rooms and lavishly decorated with murals. One of the doors lay ajar, and Manuela briefly noted ‘Infirmary’ scrawled on the door like it had just been set up.

‘In here!’ Flayn panted, finally relinquishing her grip. Manuela raised an eyebrow, after she had wiped a bead of sweat from it. Seteth arrived soon after, not so much as short of breath. Both adults raised an eyebrow. Before them sat a young boy, who waved when they walked in. There was a gash on his face – nothing life-threatening, and while bleeding profusely, Manuela could tell from a glance that it was not major. Seteth seemed rather more impatient, turning his gaze to Flayn. Nevertheless, Manuela sprang into action.

‘Do you have gloves and rubbing alcohol?’ She asked Flayn, largely ignoring the priest to his chagrin. Flayn nodded, before handing her gloves and…rat poison. Manuela blinked, slowly setting the poison aside.

‘It’s a…new infirmary.’ Seteth cleared his throat, turning to reprimand Flayn. Before he got the chance, Manuela was speaking again, now to the young student on the bed.

‘Now then, hon, let me tidy you up.’ Her face glowed with a genuine adoration for medicine, and using a dressing that she seemingly summoned from thin air, applying pressure to the wound until the bleeding stemmed. Pushing up her skirt dress, which earned a giggle from Flayn and a raised eyebrow from Seteth, she pulled a small flask from its holster on her thigh, which she wet the dressing with before reapplying. Seteth’s inhuman nose caught the smell of whiskey. Oh, the goddess has blessed them with an alcoholic, too, he muttered silently.

‘Now, dear, this may sting, so please don’t be shocked…’ She delivered her words with a firm but reassuring tone, and Seteth folded his arms and observed. Flayn clasped her hands together, wanting to be of use but unsure how. The student squirmed for a moment, before settling. Manuela now turned her attention to Flayn in the corner.

‘Now, you were saying Heal wasn’t working? Can you show me, Flayn?’ The name was foreign to her; and she hoped she said it right. The girl’s eyes lit up at being called upon; and she outstretched her fingers, concentrating as a wave of white magic flowed from her hands – and stopped abruptly. The magic circle faded, as did the small glow, and both Seteth and Flayn furrowed their brows. Manuela chuckled, before taking Flayn’s hands in her own.

‘Well, I see the issue! Your hands aren’t quite right, sweetheart.’ The older woman arranged Flayn’s fingers to be more spread out, her shoulders in a slightly wider position. ‘Now, straighten your back, honey, and close your eyes. Imagine it like lightning from your fingers.’ The emerald-haired priest considered interrupting – it was against every instinct he had to let a stranger breathe Flayn’s air, let alone be so close, yet this opera singer had barged past his barriers with ease. Perhaps it was seeing the joy on his dau- _Sister’s_ face. _Goddess, I must stop thinking like that. She is your sister in this era, Cichol, no matter how much it pains you._ The sound of Flayn’s small squeak drew him out of his self-imposed lecture. Seteth smiled softly. Cethleann had been devastated when she found she’d lost much of her affinity for faith, but he’d kindly shown that centuries of sleep had dulled both of them. It didn’t help that their practices and techniques had been lost to time, and using them would certainly raise some eyebrows. Flayn concentrated, her face warming into a smile as a cool breath of magic whipped over her body, the student squirming as it blew across his face, sealing the gash. Flayn opened her eyes, inching closer to touch her work, before a warning glare from Seteth stopped her. Manuela felt her chest puff with pride, and continued her lecture. ‘It will always be easier if you can touch the patient, dear, but what a wonderful job you’ve done!’ Her praise caused Flayn to light up and she clasped her hands together.

‘Oh, goddess bless you! Miss, uh…’ the girl’s face reddened. What a sweetheart. Strange to think her ‘brother’ was the stoic wooden plank in the doorway.

‘Manuela, honey. Manuela Casagranda! Maybe you’ve heard of me?’ She posed with a twirl, her smile plastic but well-meaning. It was a signature gesture, even the nomads of the mountains knew it.

Flayn blinked. ‘Not at all! But it’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Casagranda!’ Manuela’s face reddened at the girl’s candor.

‘Ooh, the nerve!’ She joked, patting Flayn’s head. Somehow, that gesture felt like a disrespect, even though it was just a young girl stood before her. ‘And you can call me Manuela, dear. Professor Manuela, I should hope!’ She winked, easing the slight awkwardness in the air with flair. Seteth cleared his throat, a silent observer in the action. If one could call it that. He was not looking forward to writing a letter of apology to whatever noble house the boy hailed from. Flayn met his stare, and his brow softened. It could wait. Still, he had a façade to maintain, and it would all be for nought if this actress persisted in her presence.

‘Now, Flayn. You have duties to which you must also attend, no?’ Manuela raised an eyebrow, noting the firm yet soft tone in which the priest spoke. Kind, she thought, a rare breed of man. The songstress tightened her corset strings and waved to the girl as she skipped away, her hair bouncing merrily with each step. There was a flash of mischievous mirth in her eyes, Manuela noted, a secret message exchanged between just the two of them - she must find her again later to thank her. Well, depending on if her feat of professionalism had won over the stern man before her. Seteth was silent, scrutinising her with his glare. She was impressive, certainly, but Manuela needed to curb her candor if she wished to be a member of the faculty. She would be a fresh face in an ageing church, even if that face spouted some absolute nonsense from time to time. His silence unnerved her. As an actress, Manuela was an expert at reading emotion as well as falsifying it.

‘So?’ Was all Manuela could muster, her nails digging into the sheer fabric of her dress. _Stop that, Manuela, you’ll leave marks. You fool._ Chastising herself for her anxiety, Manuela tried to convince herself she hadn’t overstepped some invisible boundary.

‘Very well. I will see you tomorrow at 7:30 AM. Sharp.’ Seteth looked down at her from some pedestal, not just due to his alarming height. She had not noticed how looming he was before, and she suddenly felt very small in his presence. It took a moment for his words to settle in, before her rouged lips spread into a gleeful grin. Mischief twinkled in her eyes, and she straightened her back, smoothing her barely-tousled hair. There was so much product in it, it was much like stroking a Boulder, but she thanked the Goddess for her precaution.

‘Seven-thirty?!’ She exclaimed, before remembering her place. ‘Ah- I mean; of course, Mr. Seteth.’ She nodded, attempting to keep her excitement veiled.

The priest sighed.

‘Just Seteth will do.’


	2. Verse 2: Songstress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second time Seteth noticed Professor Manuela was some years later, and it was a rather one sided interaction.
> 
> Happy new year! :)

File. Fill in. Repeat. Seteth’s eyes began to water, the golden sunlight streaming through his office window doing nothing to illuminate his current work. In fact, it shone directly into his eyes, forcing him to close the blinds and sit, once again, unmoving, eyes fixated on nothing at all.

  
_Goddess above, what sin am I atoning for?_

  
The priest was no foreigner to paperwork, it being his primary task in this new life – sometimes he forgot that he was living a false existence in the relentless monotony of his daily work. Seteth had been tasked by Rhea to organise incoming merchant… _oh, what did it matter? Cichol, you are wasting away._   
Attempting to battle his own fatigue, he flexed his hands before giving up entirely and dropping his quill on the desk with a pathetic clatter. Something was winding him tightly. _This cannot persist. I must clear my head._ The saint’s brain was full of everything, and yet nothing, and it was times like these he wished his wife was still alive. Her sage advice was a guiding light, and it often wound its way into his lengthy parables. It bothered him that he could no longer hear her voice when he prayed, no longer picture her face. She had been gone for some time.

  
He was startled from his trance by the ringing of the bell. Goddess be praised, the working day had ended. He ran his hands through his grass-green hair, before realising his mistake and arranging it to cover his ears, pressing it into place and sighing.  
 _Maybe tea will alleviate this?_ He had no clue what ‘this’ was, but even the soothing scent of the four-spice did not help his agitation. He drank pensively, drumming his fingers on the desk. He was certain Flayn would have something to say worthwhile, but her time was now taken by Byleth. He should be glad for that, but Seteth’s evenings had become rather hollow, lacking meaning and certainly lacking work. By the time he opened the curtains, the sun had since disappeared. When had it set? The clouds smothered the stars, leaving a sky as blank as the priest’s thoughts. Seteth shook his head. There was only really one place to go now.

  
Seteth marched through the faculty quarters, the nothingness in his head growing heavy on his shoulders. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he would encounter Manuela – it was around this time she began drinking, and it would be around 4 hours before she was dragged to her room by either her own melancholy or whoever was unfortunate enough to cross her during it. Alas, no such luck. Most likely he had already missed his opportunity to chide her for her misconduct. For all his authority, that woman did not listen to instruction. His shoes made no sound as he walked, descending the winding stairs and bracing the cold Pegasus Moon air. A kind figure the Cathedral was not - the imposing structure was to be revered, and even Seteth found himself unable to look at it for too long. All the stained glass in the world could not bridge the river of blood it was built upon. The valley loomed either side, a chasm that threatened to swallow him. Seteth despised how early the sun set. It drowned the monastery in a blanket that seemed to silence the pleasant sounds of nature he so loved. Few students were about, not caring for the chill, and a solitary guard stood by the grand cathedral doors, half asleep and almost certainly frostbitten. Seteth relieved the pitiful man of his duty. Prayer time had long since ended. There was much he had to reflect on, and to do so alone was a blessing.   
  
However, the second he so much as placed his hand on the wood, a sound reverberated in his sensitive ears – the cathedral had wonderful acoustics but even the most talented opera singer could have trouble forcing their voice to carry this far. Still, a melody shook the air, with a forceful grace that caused him to blink in surprise. No one should be here, and yet a lone figure stood before the alter, arms splayed wide in what he could only assume to be jubilation. Their silhouette was difficult to distinguish from the surrounding shadows as they sang in mere candlelight, yet Seteth’s inhuman chartreuse eyes noted one or two distinguishing features. A woman, clear of voice and tone, and he stepped closer, silent on the stone floor.

  
He recognised those inflections.

  
For the one offering such devout praise to the goddess was none other than Manuela, her fur shawl blurring her dimly lit figure. The priest’s mouth was slightly ajar, and were Rhea to have seen him she would have mocked the expression. The Professor tilted her head up to the sky, a hand grazing her throat as she almost effortlessly transformed an everyday hymn into her own saga, each note becoming its own character and each bar another scene, full of life and jubilation.

  
Seteth was transfixed. Surely his senses betrayed him – he had been so close to sleep just moments before, he could write it off as a dream, and yet a particularly piecing high note shook away the notion. He observed, fascinated, as her arms mirrored the emotions the song was meant to convey, lost to poorly performed choirs and too-often utterances. Her hands shaped the sound, adorning it with passion before the woman released her hymn to the goddess, powerful enough to shake the Holy Mausoleum. Seteth had come to pray, yet to disturb her would be blasphemy in itself – instead he seated himself in a distant pew, finding himself once again unable to form a coherent thought. The Archbishop’s advisor allowed his eyes to close, tilting his head to the great glass window Manuela sung towards. It was common knowledge that she was a former Diva, a position not easily won, but Seteth had brushed it aside as irrelevant information – as long as she could do her job, he cared not for her previous fame. But the person at the altar was not the Manuela Casagranda he knew; surely such a woman could not be a follower of the Goddess? He was not aware she even liked the Church of Seiros, and here she was delivering a performance that would put their choir to shame. The air was shaken of its chill by her voice, the cold itself cowering as Manuela glowed in the candlelight, performing for no one but the divine. As she ascended each octave like the steps of the goddess tower, Seteth felt a tightness in his chest that he had not experienced in this era.

  
With a climactic flair that had been building up in her chest, Manuela threw her head back, her voice reverberating from solid stone and raising the hairs on the back of Seteth’s neck. The song ended abruptly, and Manuela slowly brought her arms down, warm breath forming white clouds. Suddenly Seteth was acutely aware of the utter silence surrounding him. It was crushing. He kept his eyes on her back, quietly hoping she might continue. If only she was so gracious in her daily life. Trying to ignore a wish that was surely just that, Seteth tried to ground himself in unbiased observation. To say it was beautiful would be an insult. Manuela, meanwhile, was panting, but there was resolve in her body language. She was not finished. Finally, she spoke, unaware of her silent observer.  
‘Goddess, I hope you liked that.’. It amused Seteth that she spoke of the Goddess as if she was a friend – perhaps it comforted the songstress. From anyone else, he would think it disrespectful, yet he was pleased that she had any semblance of respect at all. Manuela massaged her throat, murmuring something about that ending note being off, but Seteth had noticed no such mistake, even if his mind was overwhelmed in the moment. Discarding her shawl, Manuela was iridescent, looking nothing like the fallen star she claimed to be. Another longing look was cast to the altar, while loosening her corset strings. Seteth’s mouth tugged up into a soft smile. The haphazardly tied ribbon was a daily source of irritation. She was deserving of a packed audience, all writhing to see her perform, and all to be equally drawn in by her enchanting voice. Seteth was not a purveyor of the arts, but was aware of that much at least. _Why have I never heard her sing before?_ It never occurred to him that it may be because he never listened.

  
‘Dear Holy Cichol, please watch over me.’  
  
 _Pardon?_  
  
Seteth felt his ears burn at the sound of his own name from another’s mouth. Cichol. Holy Cichol, that was him, that was Seteth – was she praying to him? It was difficult to believe that Cichol was her favoured Saint, but the knowledge amused Seteth greatly. Before he could fully digest the gravity of her words, she began again, a single note escaping her lips before she silenced herself.  
‘No, no, no! That was a B flat, Manuela, pull it together.’  
This small respite allowed Seteth to resume his thoughts. He was no stranger to seeing prayers offered to him – or rather, his statue, and he made an effort to avoid the Cathedral on Saint Cichol’s Day, his birthday – but it unnerved him. For Manuela to offer them seemed unnatural, like they should be directed at another – even Cethleann would be better, his daughter was a patron Saint of physicians, after all. And yet, Manuela Casagranda resumed her song in praises of his past life, a song that held far too much weight for Seteth to simply listen to.  
It was the Ode to Cichol – written by his late wife. He remembered her singing it for the first time, yet he could not recall the sound, as Manuela’s vocal prowess overpowered every sense, taking him hostage in his own reminiscence. To hear a song usually butchered be given such a revival did something to him that was beyond the grasp of this language, so he whispered in a dead tongue that would have him executed if another heard it, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the wood of the pew. It felt wrong to have such a reaction to another woman, even if it was just her song. His grip tightened further at the feeling of betrayal, matching Manuela as she reached the apex of her song - and the usually stoic Seteth caused the wood to splinter in his hands, an inhuman act of strength he cursed in Nabatean. It briefly broke him from her hypnosis, and that fact alone irked him. Alas, he pushed the ill feeling down. His wife was long since gone. It was such a rare opportunity to hear his own Ode sung with such grace, so he relinquished his grip, making a poorly scribbled mental note to have a merchant order more wood. Once again her pitch rose, her vocal chords straining for a finale that no one would hear. She harmonised with her own echoes, the shadows joining in a serene melody that seemed to have their own voices.  
Manuela finished, the final note fading until she once again soothed her throat. She was some years out of practice, she would have said, but one could not tell. Seteth smiled sadly. It was a performance worthy of a standing ovation, but he had a feeling to tell her that would only give her the wrong idea. Hence he remained sat in the shadow of the pew, the phantom notes still dancing about his mind, dissipating the fog of his thoughts.  
Seteth made a silent pledge to seek this opera again.


	3. Verse 3 - Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Flayn incident, from Manuela’s perspective, and what happened after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I’ve been off sick for a while (COIVD!) however I quite like this chapter I wrote between coughs. I put flayn in because I find her and Manuela’s dynamic really cute :)  
> more consistent updates coming!

Verse 3 – Sacrifice

From the moment he heard her voice, Seteth had a tendency to see Manuela. Not just to notice her.

Nothing is eternal. Not her life, not her voice, and certainly not her beauty. These were things Manuela lamented that morning as she ran her fingers over a crease that had manifested below her eye. The bags were resistant to whatever she lathered on, and even a light touch of Heal did nothing to ease her affliction. She knew it was vain, but it came with a heavy burden of the constant glares. At least, she thinks there are glares. Manuela’s time in the opera was an ever present shadow, growing as the stagelights glittered and impossibly looming now they had dimmed. _A dying star, Manuela, that is what you are._ She gave in, exasperated, and turned away from her full body mirror. Flayn was missing. Yes, that was much more important than her impeding transformation into a haggard crone. Sweet, dear Flayn. Seteth was going mad, barely eating, pacing about his quarters so loudly it kept her awake. That was understandable. Manuela quietly wondered what it was like to have someone else care about you that much, before she dismissed the selfish notion. She had to be of use. Somehow.

_Precisely 3 hours later…_

_Ouch._

The floor of Jeritza’s office was horribly hard, she thought, and this would be awful for her posture. And…why was she on Jeritza’s floor? Was she hungover?

Dazed, her petite hand drifted to the dull ache in her abdomen.

Oh, that was right. Jeritza had run her through with her own knife.

_How embarrassing._

The creak of the ancient floorboards next to her head drew her attention. Dusty boots. Manuela’s eyes widened, her honey irises shrinking in the white void of her fear. He was still here. She dared not move, every muscle limp. He must know she was still alive.

_This is it._

Her lip trembling – or, it would if she had the energy, she heard Jeritza’s voice float down to her.

‘Goodbye, Manuela.’ Manuela almost returned the salutation out of force of habit. So it was simple mercy that earned her a few moments more in the cruel world. How fitting! Now she could throw an extended pity party. The wood splintered into her previously unbroken skin, cruelly pricking blood when she had none to spare. Jeritza turned on his heel, tossing her dagger to the floor with a dull thud. Her own scarlet blood twinkled in the dim light filtering through the office’s dusty window. The dagger was intended to be a symbol of strength – that’s what Anna had said when she bought it, anyway, but what good was it now? Manuela wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but her breaths were irregular and short, and were she her own patient she would certainly be preparing them for the end. Manuela could not move, but she heard the traitor’s steps fade down stone.

_Stone?_

With all the strength her failing muscles had, she turned her head over. A gargantuan task, but the blood spilling from her stomach did not allow her much pride. It was a rather unfortunate view, but the bookcase before her was sliding shut behind Jeritza. Goddess forbid Garreg Mach have a few more secrets. Manuela was not entirely pleased with being stabbed, but the Physician in her forbid any more movement. Despite the innate urge screaming at her to live on, Manuela was a professor and Flayn was her student. It was her duty. Being bold may not save her, but it could help Flayn. She had to be down there. The least she could do was…

**_‘Auuugh!’_ **

The simple movement of stretching her arm to point towards the opening tore her wound wider, eliciting a scream far louder than any of her soprano finales. It burned, her heart begging her to cease moving. It had already been damaged by her life choices, and this was just torture. The crimson on her lips was no longer just makeup, her rouged cheeks now drained of their gentle blush.

_Always has to be the centre of attention, even in your last moments._

Manuela nearly laughed, if it wasn’t for the tears streaming down her face. How she had enough fluid in her body to produce them, she didn’t know. Her inner critic really would take her to the grave. Gritting her teeth, she weakly cast heal. A spark from her fingers, but nothing more, a pathetic last burst of the collapsing star.

_Oh, wonderful._

The lonely interior of Jeritza’s office was swallowing her, and now her mind turned to the manner of her death. Might as well die in a suitably drab environment. Manuela had always had her suspicions about him. But to barely put up a fight and then to be lanced with her own bloody dagger was another blow from the Goddess. Maybe she should have stayed a Diva. No one stabbed her when she was a Diva. At least, no one had succeeded. Her regrets haunted her, as her eyes finally shut. She hoped people would show up to her funeral.

_Seteth, Flayn, my students…Forgive me._

One by one, each muscle relaxed, accepting the fate which had-

‘Professor Manuela?!’ the voice of the Reigan boy permeated her dramatic soliloquy.

_Oh good. Can’t even die in peace._

Her thoughts faded as the hard floor guided her to darkness, a panicked stampede raging around her lifeless body.

She awoke, unfortunately, within a few days. Her skull was threatening to burst from her scalp, and her stomach was performing its own acrobatic routine. Even the painfully clean air of infirmary threatened to induce more nausea, and the first thing Manuela could articulate was;

‘Oh, goddess. I really drank too much.’

However, there was no pleasantly burning aftertaste of long-aged whiskey on her tongue. Instead, the scarlet mercury of the blood that stained her lips tasted like a rusting sword thrust into her mouth, and it was enough to ground her in reality without mercy.

_Oh goddess above, that really wasn’t some terrible dream. Am I dead?_

She wiggled her fingers, and to her surprise felt the rough cotton of the infirmary cot.

_No. Still going, eh, Manuela?_

She wasn’t sure if she was grateful or selfishly annoyed – for some reason, it felt right to have her life ebb out at that moment. Instead, she lay in an embarrassingly ugly nightgown that she reserved for injured students. It was far from decent, though when was she ever? The Professor couldn’t help but laugh as the blasted thing barely had any shape, exposing her legs to her thigh. If she had worn something so wonton around Seteth, she quietly chuckled, he would have probably fainted. She blinked. Seteth. Flayn.

_Is Flayn alive? Goddess, please, let Flayn be alright._

Curiosity took over, but any attempt to sit up to inspect her war wound was met with a jolt of electrifying agony. The hole ripped into her side had been stitched up by hands that were not as deft as her own, and it didn’t take a doctor to foresee their shoddiness. Still, they held, and she should be thankful. Should be. The phantom knife felt like it was still lodged in her, creating a small chasm that would never be refilled. Manuela wondered if they’d transfused blood. Her arms were not filled with tubes and fluids, and the Professor quietly thanked the goddess as any more scars might induce a nervous breakdown.

_Ugh. And I’d taken such good care of my skin!_

Manuela knew her thoughts were selfish, but she figured she would forgive it this once. She almost giggled as she remembered how panicked she had been about her eye bags that day. How pathetic. With a sudden resolve that Manuela didn’t know she had, she gripped the edge of the miserable bed and slowly levered herself upwards into a slightly less awkward position, cursing enough to make a Priest blush, but her struggle was met with the small reward of a better view of her surroundings. The infirmary was empty, aside from her – which brought her great relief, as it meant that no one else was hurt in that escapade. She could only pray that Flayn was safe. Which she did. Though clasping her hands together made her head spin, Manuela uttered a few words of prayer, hoping they might be heard by someone, anyone at this point.

Manuela’s quiet worship was interrupted by the characteristic squeaking of her infirmary door. How strange it felt to be in a different role here – though Seteth had insisted on fixing its poorly fitted hinges Manuela found she enjoyed the sound, like a bell above a shop door. It meant company, even if that company was another injured student. Alas, it was one of her own nurses who entered, holding a bowl of water and a towel. When the young girl’s eyes met Manuela’s honey irises, she nearly dropped the bowl, before composing herself.

‘Manuela-! I mean- _Professor_ Manuela, you’re awake!’ Manuela noted the surprise in her voice. Were they expecting her to lay here forever? Manuela gave a grimace that could almost be a smile, unwilling to trial any more aching at this time.

‘Hello, dear. Hope you weren’t counting me out just y- ugh.’ Manuela barely finished her sentence as her vision span, her face draining of colour. It was a hangover straight from Ailell, and it took half a minute before she could steady herself, gripping the frame of the cot.

‘Please, don’t strain yourself.’ The nurse said quietly. ‘You’ve barely started healing. We didn’t have anyone on hand with white magic advanced enough to help, but today Miss Flayn-‘

The nurse was cut off as Manuela grabbed her wrist, a fierce tenacity in her eyes. The welcome knowledge of Flayn’s safety overpowered the current whirlpool of nausea raging within her.

‘Flayn is _alive?_ How is she? Is she hurt?’ Manuela’s questions came like rapid fire and the nurse looked vaguely terrified. The older woman’s grip loosened, falling back onto the cot.

‘Y-yes. I- I mean no! A few cuts and bruises, nothing more. I’m not sure the smothering by Mr Seteth is helping, however.’ The nurse reddened slightly, knowing that badmouthing a member of the faculty was dangerous, but it amused Manuela.

‘Ha!’ The Professor laughed, between coughs that felt like spears to the stomach. ‘Oh, poor Seteth. At least she is safe.’ Manuela flinched as the nurse lifted her gown to access her wound – she’d certainly have to train the girl in better bedside manner when it comes to invasion of privacy, but now was not the time. The heated water, now slightly lukewarm, was a soft sting, but she was grateful for the treatment nontheless. The nurse waved as she left, leaving Manuela once again in silence.

Silence was the one thing she despised. It was bad enough at night when everyone slept – the silence of Garreg Mach was its own spectre, taking hold of one’s courage and snapping it like a twig. Manuela felt so often compelled to break it with her voice, lest people forget what she sounded like. The silence in the infirmary was different, however – it called out to her, swaddled her, and asked her quietly to think of what would have happened should her own knife have claimed her.

Before she could venture down that dark alley, however, the door creaked again.

The simple interaction had somehow tired her to the point of collapse, yet the older woman pulled herself together. Another cutie wishing her well?

A flash of bright green hair, gold thread twinkling in the cloudy daylight and Manuela felt her heart fill with joy.

‘Flayn…’ she murmured, disappointed she could not muster more excitement.

The young girl tilted her head, offering a warm smile. The action revealed a small bruise on her neck which made Manuela sigh. Flayn held a book in her hands, and though her vision was too fuzzy to make out the title she knew off by heart that it said ‘Advanced Faith’.

‘Hello, Professor Manuela.’ Flayn giggled, the girlish sound easing Manuela’s worry. She made a silent note to offer thanks to the goddess when she could move.

‘What brings me the pleasure of your visit, hon?’ Manuela tried to hide the strain in her voice but all the acting in the world could not mask the laboured breaths and pale face. Flayn placed the book on the beside desk, clasping Manuela’s soft hands in her own.

‘Because you saved me, of course! And, I must tend to your wound, it simply would not do to allow it to hurt you any longer.’ Flayn spoke with such resolve, Manuela was unsure if she’d been asleep for years instead of a few days. It was like Flayn had grown overnight. Manuela’s head once again threatened to twist itself off, preventing her from replying with anything but a grateful smile. _This may just turn me sober_ , she thought bitterly, but was drawn out of her thoughts by Flayn placing her hands on her face. There was barely a pause before Manuela was jolted by a sudden charge of white magic – so different to the cool breeze she’d administered so many times, this magic was barely of the same calibre. The current explored her body before it found the gash in her abdomen, closing capillaries and pulling her skin back together. The neglected muscles present strained as they were forced into place, fusing together to form a functional, if slightly matted, mess. Instead of a gentle feeling of relief, Manuela’s eyes widened in momentary agony before she settled, panting as the pain dissipated as quickly as it appeared. Her usually perfect hair was ruffled about her head, her hands now clammy. Whatever had just happened was nothing like the white magic she knew – and she should have known it, it was her specialty, so what in Sothis’ name was that? She had no energy to ponder it, however, as it was now followed by another spell – this time quite evidently Heal, and Manuela cast her eyes up to Flayn. She wanted to ask about that spell, but Flayn gave her no respite.

‘Do you remember when you taught me this spell?’ Flayn giggled, clasping her hands behind her back and rocking on her heels. The groggy haze that filled the older woman’s vision dissipated and her headache soothed – the pressing query of the nature of Flayn’s magic disappeared in favour of rejoicing the lack of hangover-headache. Manuela swallowed.

‘Yes…Now I remember, Flayn, didn’t you set-‘ Manuela was cut off by Flayn hushing her.

‘My brother awaits us outside!’ She said with a wink, and Manuela got the hint.

‘Foolish of me to think he’d leave you alone for even a second.’ The Professor brought a pale hand up to her abdomen, running it over the thinly clothed scar. It was a scar, now, and as Flayn waved goodbye she pushed up the gown, running her hand over the contorted flesh. It was like her skin had been knitted together, and while she was grateful for the somewhat miraculous work of magic she sighed at the sight. The ridge of flesh was a little stiff, perhaps with an ache or two, but the vulenaries in her drawer ought to cure it. Manuela’s scientific interest overtook her selfishness for a moment, wondering what toll it must have taken on her body to simply close up again like that, as if she had been glued together and clamped in place in a matter of seconds. She must follow up on Flayn with that spell soon.

‘Oh, the things kids learn these days…’ she huffed, absent-mindedly running her fingers across the seal.

Outside, he stood, waiting.

Well. That was technically untrue. He had accompanied Flayn as she left, following her closely and only leaving her side when he handed her to Rhea. It set his heart going at record pace with each step, and even in the Archbishop’s hands Seteth began to think that Flayn might not be safe. All these years, and there was a traitor. All his work wasted on a disguise.

_What should I do?_

_Where will we go now?_

_Think, Cichol, th-_

‘You’re allowed to come in, Seteth.’

His crashing train of thought was halted by a soft voice floating through the infirmary door. His head snapped up, and he made the conscious decision to stop digging his nails so deeply into his palms they left cuts. Seteth cleared his throat, realigning his breathing before attempting to appear as composed as possible. He briskly marched through the infirmary door. This would be a simple expression of gratitude, he would check on her well-being, then he would leave. _Three simple steps_.

Of course, his plan was derailed when he closed the door behind him, only to be faced with the supine Manuela, covered only by the hospital gown and fixing him with a warm smile. The sight instantly set his face ablaze, the heat suddenly rather bothersome and the collar of his tunic too tight. It was rather impossible not to spare a glance toward the sight of her long legs extruding across the cot, rather well proportioned and-

_Get it together, Cichol. She is your colleague, and would not appreciate your lechery._ If he could slap himself he would. Manuela clearly noted his embarrassment, and let out a teasing laugh.

‘Well hello, Seteth. I thought you’d never come by~!’ A temptress though she was, she noted his discomfort and sat up, throwing the pathetic excuse for a blanket over her legs. It seemed to smother the blush on his face, if only a little.

‘Ah- Manuela, I see you are well.’ Was the best he could manage. He saw it tactical not to tell her that he had been with her in the days she had been out – when Flayn slept, under Rhea’s watchful eye, he visited, stood by her bedside. He felt like he should have brought flowers, and the sight of another person in his life so lifeless certainly jarred him. An onlooker who did not know Seteth might have noticed the glaze in his eyes, the lump in his throat. No matter how many times they hid, they could not live peacefully. Not with his wife. And now Manuela had been injured due to his inability to protect his daughter. Forcing his mind to the present, he tried to form a coherent sentence, and was glad when his dear colleague filled the silence.

_That’s right. She is dear to you, Cichol. You would do best to remember that._

Whatever she said flew over his head as the sudden realisation that he was more than simply _concerned_ for Manuela Casagranda struck him. It was not an easily rationalised thought, and once again the Diva noticed.

‘Hello~! Seteth? Are you in there..?’ Manuela teased, but her smile faded when he looked back at her, honey eyes meeting emerald. His face had set into a firm, resolved expression she could not put her finger on, but she found handsome nontheless. Seteth stepped closer, now where his daughter had stood moments ago.

‘Thank you.’ He murmured, his stare drilling straight into Manuela’s soul.

‘Pardon..?’ She replied, blinking rapidly as if to bat away what he’d just said.

‘I mean it, Manuela. Thank you. I fear that without your intervention, we…’ Seteth could not bring himself to finish the sentence, mind caught fast on events that could have transpired. It was rather painful to see Seteth upset, it was such a rare state. She couldn’t even bring herself to approach him at first when Flayn went missing for fear of what she would see in those eyes. Using the last bit of her sapping strength, she sat up, reaching over and grabbing his rough hand in hers. Any such motion would have made him scream in surprise on any other day, yet he merely accepted the warm touch. Manuela looked up, quietly wondering when he would awaken from his trance and snap away from her, yet it never came.

‘Seteth, don’t trouble yourself over things that could have been. Flayn is unharmed, and I promise that we’ll strike back on the culprits. Alright?’ She spoke soothingly, as if he was the patient in this situation. Her charm worked on him, and his brow softened. The priest still did not relinquish his hand, though Manuela grew warm from the contact. She’d always found it funny, the disparity between her flirting and when it was actually returned. She continued, knowing Seteth was content with merely being here. ‘Besides, dear Flayn did such a good job healing me - you’d never know I was stabbed, see?’ Manuela decided to prod him. She’d always found Seteth to be frankly unable to voice his concerns about her whenever it came to her attire – he would always simply look away, which rather hurt considering half the time it was his attention she looked for. But this was not the case. Manuela parted the gown, showing off the scar like it was a war trophy all of a sudden rather than a blemish on her once perfect skin. It just…felt right, to have him see it, to bare this part of herself that she would now carry for as long as she lived. Seteth, ever the gentleman, tried to turn his head, though the sight of the ugly ridge out of the corner of his eye made him sigh. It was untoward, at first, but nothing he’d never seen. Still, it felt so out of place on her. He was glad Cethleann had healed many such a wound before-

_Wait._

Though his memory of the era before his sleep was fading, Seteth was certain he’d seen this pattern of scarring on Cethleann’s patients. Which meant his daughter had healed Manuela not as Flayn, his sister, but as Cethleann, the Saint. Using a magic that was long since forgotten to the majority of the world. His heart began to race again, but he convinced himself to calm. Manuela was not the enemy. She could never be. Steeling his resolve and suppressing the very conflicted emotions about the situation, Seteth finally decided to speak.

‘Are you hurt?’ The simple question came a lot more gently than he had anticipated, stained with worry and concern. To see such emotion, usually reserved for Flayn, directed at her made Manuela’s heart skip a beat.

‘N-no. Not anymore.’ The phantom heat of his hand in hers soon became very obvious, and Manuela cursed the fact that she cared so much about him. It was a jump from simply wanting him, certainly, and she wondered if she’d ever felt like that about someone. It was her turn to be rendered silent, under Seteth’s gaze she felt paralysed. He reached forward, pulling the infirmary gown back over her stomach, his hand grazing the sensitive scar. It was the most contact he’d ever had with her, and immediately her mind jumped to less holy thoughts, but the ache of her limbs suggested otherwise. Instead, she simply giggled, earning a soft smile from the stoic priest. He shook his head, his soft chartreuse hair shining in the light of the midday sun. She admired him, in every sense of the word – his grace, his gentility, and quite certainly his appearance. How the advisor to the archbishop was so capable of such a thing astounded her, yet she drank her fill nontheless. It was a physical pain when he drew back, and she pouted.

‘Visit again sometime, Seteth. Such handsome company is always welcome~’ she flirted shamelessly, in a last ditch attempt to cover up the genuine affection she held for him.

‘And it is good to see you in full spirit again.’ Seteth could not bring himself to chide her, not after what she had done for Flayn. Instead he simply drew the blanket back over her. ‘Rest, Manuela. The Academy would do well to keep a beloved Professor alive.’. He said such words with his usual stoic confident, and she barely caught on to what he was saying until a few moments later. Alas, Seteth had already departed, leaving the ghost of his words to hang above her head. Manuela was a well-aged, mature woman, yet she could have been mistaken for one of her students, the way she pulled her hands to her chest and sighed, staring at the ceiling.

‘Beloved, huh…’ she murmured.

_Beloved._


End file.
